


The Curse

by Rehfan



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Awkwardness, Gender or Sex Swap, Humor, Menstruation, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-12
Updated: 2014-11-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 02:08:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2604674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond wakes up in a female body.</p><p>A menstruating female body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse

 

He awoke feeling awful. It was a general ache, a dull pressure in his lower abdomen and it didn’t make sense. He went to bed last night feeling just fine. Well, if he were honest, he did feel a little wary after the old woman spat her curse at him as he left their company. He really did go in there with both guns blazing - quite literally - and didn’t take care to pay attention to whom he shot in order to get to Petrov.

Of course, getting Petrov to confess first was an unexpected bonus but that didn’t happen without threatening the woman he was with. And how was he supposed to know that she was the granddaughter of the old woman? It was stupid for the old lady to scream at him as he hadn’t had to kill her. She had a bruise on her cheek and that wouldn’t have left anything permanent. But she had screamed, clutching her granddaughter to her and making an ancient gesture with her hands. “You men don’t understand what it is to be a woman. To be a woman is to suffer. And so you should suffer as well. I curse you! For every woman there is, I curse you.” She spat. “The woman’s curse be upon you - if only for one day. May you suffer as we suffer. May you know our pain.”

And the pain in his belly wasn’t to be denied. Groaning, he rose from the bed. It must have been something he ate, he speculated. But then his body seemed to revolt. As he stood fully, he felt as though his bladder had let go and at the same time his internal muscles wouldn’t allow his torso to come up. A massive muscle contraction pulled him, doubled him over. He shut his eyes against the pain and cried out. He thought he must have been stabbed in the night; either that or this was the worst bout of dysentery he had ever experienced. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Somewhere a woman had cried out.

He scanned the room quickly looking for the woman, his heart racing. Wherever she was, she was in pain. He couldn’t find her. He was alone in his hotel room. He was torn between searching for her and helping himself. He decided to head to the toilet. There would be time to help her once he had estimated just how badly he was hurt. He entered the room and locked the door behind him, making a bee-line for the commode.

He lowered his pants and tried to scan for damage but his attention was arrested by the breasts on his chest. He let out a yelp and heard the woman again. Blood covered his crotch, his inner thighs smeared with the dark fluid. He palpated, terrified he had become a victim of a vengeful former mark. He couldn’t understand what he was feeling. He felt no pain but the internal kind; he seemed to be outwardly intact. But he wasn’t intact for a male of the species. His regular standard-issue equipment was nowhere to be found. Instead his fingers told him that his anatomy had changed. He had, in fact, somehow… become a biological female.

His hands were covered in blood, his abdomen ached, he felt liquid flow from him but he was certain he wasn’t urinating. The maths couldn’t be denied, but Bond managed. “What the fuck happened to me?” asked the female voice, the echo reverberating in the room as if to mock his confusion. After another moment he whispered to the room: “This can’t be happening to me.”

Through habit he fell back on his training: recognize the situation, solve the problem. He knew he needed a shower. His pants had had it. He kicked them off, noting the difference in the musculature of his legs. He cleaned himself up with toilet paper. For some reason, the pain had dissipated a bit so that when he stood, it was only a dull ache. He flushed the toilet shaking his head with disbelief as the evidence of his apparent menstruation spiraled out of sight. He stalked to the shower noting the feel of his limbs and the weight of the breasts on his chest.

He slid behind the doors and started the taps, water beating down on his chest. As it came to temperature, he took the shower head by its handle and washed the blood off of his thighs and vagina. His fingers parted the labia as the water flushed out all the offensive fluid. It was so strange and surreal to look down at his junk and not find anything there without having to probe with his fingers. Another wave of pain crashed over him and he doubled again, coming to sit on the shower floor. He breathed through the pull and did his best not to cry out again. A soft pitiful moan escaped instead.

“This is so stupid,” he said to himself. “I’ve been shot before. I should be able to handle this.” But as soon as the words fell from his lips, he knew he was wrong. With a bullet wound (or any other kind of wound really) the pain was a constant and consistent thing. The bleeding could be staunched if not stopped outright, a damaged limb tied off, until the pain was a dull throbbing ache that he could think around. It wasn’t like being poisoned either; when his senses would slowly and gradually blur and become awkward and pain would set in slowly over time becoming worse and worse as he struggled to purge it from his system.

This pain was a different animal: it had a mind of its own. The location was the same, but he could be struck with it ad libitum. He waited for some minutes before the pain dissipated enough for him to risk standing once more. He felt sweat along his brow as he bit back the desire to stay in the shower curled up in a ball for the remainder of however long this curse was going to last. How do they stand it? There must be some drugs here somewhere. He determined to buy some right after he solved the bleeding issue.

He gave his new body a perfunctory wash with a soapy flannel while he had the energy to do so. He was certain he would enjoy the new change once this three-day hell was over; he liked the look of his new body. It did last just three days, right? Four at the most. His mind flicked to the image of a werewolf - three days of a full moon - is that where the horror story came from?

As he rinsed off, he tried to decide how to staunch the bleeding. He had no feminine products in his room of course, so he would have to make it down to the hotel lobby and purchase something. But what? He didn’t know how to use a tampon. “You git,” he chided himself. “You’re intelligent. You can figure it out. Besides,” he continued to mutter, “there’s usually instructions on the box. It’ll be fine.”

Now the only conundrum would be how to get from naked in the shower to dressed and down to the lobby without bleeding all over himself, his clothing, the hotel. He looked at the flannel in his hand and shrugged. “As good as anything else,” he said. Another wave of pain came and he was proud of himself for enduring it while leaning against the tile of the shower instead of crumpled in a heap on the floor. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed as the pain took a turn for the worse; it was like having a taffy pull inside your gut. He twisted with it and pressed into his abdomen with the flat of his free hand. He had to get some drugs. Drugs and a cotton stopper for his cunt. Fantastic.

He exited the shower and toweled off quickly, grabbing a clean dry flannel for his privates and holding it between his thighs as he made his awkward way to the bedroom. He gave himself a cursory glance in the mirror as he passed the vanity and came up short. A blonde woman with blue eyes stared back at him, soaking wet, towel suspended at her chest. She looked worried and miserable. He blinked forlornly at her and sighed, waddling toward his clothing.

“Bugger it all!” he exclaimed. There was no way to keep the flannel in place without holding his crotch. All he owned were boxers. “My kingdom for a single pair of fucking Y-fronts.” There was nothing for it. He chose his black trousers and black socks and shoes. If he was going to bleed, at least it wouldn’t be too obvious. He threw on a white shirt over his shoulders, grabbed his key card and his wallet and made for the lifts.

“Can I help you?” the woman at reception smiled at him but her smile faded as she looked upon what must have been a hell of a sight: a blonde female in male clothing two sizes too big for her, a look of worry smeared across her face.

“I need… um,” began Bond. He had never actually purchased these items before. He didn’t know what to ask for. “That is, do you have… you know. In the shop here?”

“Oh the hotel shop is just around the corner, ma’am,” she said helpfully. She smiled but her brow wrinkled in concern as she watched him go.

The shop was a tiny place fifteen foot square into which had been deposited all the goods and sundries one could ask for from a hotel stay. He went to a wall where shelves of personal toiletries could be found and scanned the products. He grabbed for the tampons and looked at the box instructions as well as the label. Another cramp took hold and he pushed against it to hold himself upright when an unpleasant rush of fluid leaked from between his legs. “Oh shit,” he cursed under his breath.

“Have you found what you need?” said another helpful voice. The hotel shop clerk was smiling at him from behind the counter. Bond’s awkward clothing didn’t seem to distress her half as much as the woman at reception.

He looked from her to the tampon box and back to the shelf, eying the panty liners and pads. Which was which? Why were there so many? He was sweating again, he could feel it on his brow. In desperation he turned to her: “Which do you recommend?” He held up the three boxes.

She raised an eyebrow, but he couldn’t be arsed to care. He just needed something that would work and fast otherwise he was going to bleed all over the shop’s carpet like a stuck pig. “Well if you’re going through what I think you’re going through…” she said as she came around the edge of the counter, “… then these will do you no good, dearie.” She put the panty liners back on the shelf. “Now,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, “how heavy is it, dear?”

A universal look of distress must have come over his face because the woman patted his arm and said, “Better have both then,” and then added: “The tampons are better for lighter days. They’ll do in a pinch until you can get better ones, but best to be protected from all sides, yeah?” She turned away from him to ring up his purchases.

A sudden thought hit Bond. “Panties?” he asked. “And aspirin? Or anything?”

The woman turned and said: “As bad as all that? Dearie me.” She nodded and pulled down a multi-pack of some bright colored cotton briefs from a hook on the wall and a bottle from another shelf. “There’s a toilet straight on from here if you’re that worried. But you may want to return to your room and get a shower.”

“Good advice,” answered Bond as he paid and thanked her. He debated running for the public toilet, but decided his room would be better to assess the damage.

 

 

~080~

 

 

He ended up taking another shower. He was also smart enough to pop a few paracetamol before getting in. He sat on the floor under the hottest spray he could stand and waited for the painkillers to kick in. He could do nothing but stare between his legs at what was there that shouldn’t be. There was no sense to it. He had fallen asleep last night as himself, in his own body. Of course his mind had been dwelling on the old woman cradling her granddaughter and the words she had said, but it was very much a dream. Then he awoke to this painful nightmare.

“I didn’t really do anything all that bad,” he reasoned aloud. “Why do I deserve this?” A thrill of panic went through him a the thought of staying this way forever. He felt the welling of despair flood over him and he wept openly. It was so stupid of him to cry, but it felt like the right thing to do all at the same time. He was ashamed of his weakness and his tears and the shame made him weep all the more. The more he cried, the more he felt ashamed, the more he cried; it was a vicious cycle. He had never felt so helpless and out of control. Finally, after many minutes, the crying subsided to soft sniffling.

He couldn’t imagine spending his life as a female. And what the hell was MI6 going to make of all this? Would they even recognize him? Or would they just imprison him on sight? Bond had no idea how to come home. The anguish of that thought ripped through him and started his tears anew. Several more minutes were spent letting all the tears in his body out.

Once the second round subsided, he became distinctly aware that on top of everything, he was tired. Bone tired. He wanted to sleep right then and there in the shower stall. The thought of moving was agonizingly awful. Getting up would require... well, getting up. Then he would have to towel off, and then secure himself with tampon and maybe also a pad, and then move to the bedroom to finally collapse on the bed. He was looking out over a wide chasm of effort toward his goal of bed and soft sheets. He hung his head and let the hot spray coat him as he closed his eyes and just breathed.

He snored himself awake after a few seconds. He needed that bed more than anything. For the millionth time that day, Bond thought his situation ludicrous. If he were in his own body, he’d have checked out of the hotel by now, gotten in his car, and would be an hour out of the city and heading home. But no, here he was stuck in a shower stall with the devil making sausages in his gut every six seconds and blood pouring out of an orifice he didn’t have eight hours ago. “I will never ever make light of a woman on her period again,” he muttered, his female voice echoing, reminding him of everything he was now.

He decided to doze for a bit; he had nothing better to do. He propped himself up against the tile wall and shut his eyes. He was asleep in seconds. The shower became the driving rain in his dreams and an old woman was cursing him in the dark.

He opened his eyes to see the shower surrounding him. The taffy pull which had been the main event in his gut for the past hour seemed to be gone. He stood gingerly and noted that he felt weighted down in the abdomen, as if there were a small child sitting on his belly. But even that was preferable to the debilitating pain of the cramps. He made sure he was as clean as he could be before turning the shower off and toweling down for the second time that morning.

He sat down on the toilet and read the instructions on both boxes. They seemed straight-forward enough. He opened the panty package and put them on up to his knees. Unwrapping the crinkly packaging and placing the pad took only a moment. The tampon took longer. At first, he followed the instructions to the letter, but by the time he had read them, he had bled out more and the cardboard applicator slipped in the slick of blood, causing the whole of the tampon to travel too far inside. Fortunately he had gotten the angle of insertion wrong and it hit the wall of the vagina painfully. With a gasp and a curse, he managed to carefully withdraw the bloody tube, wrapped it in toilet paper and tossed it away. “Well, I have a box of fourteen left. Let’s see if you can get it in three, James.”

He was successful on his second attempt. The keys were relaxing, angle, and a clean vaginal opening. He breathed a sigh of relief as he hiked the panties up over his hips. The saleswoman in the shop must have had a good eye - they fit perfectly. He would have to remember to buy her flowers or something.

But he would think about that later. He washed his hands and fell into the bed, sleeping the sleep of the dead.

 

 

~080~

 

 

He awoke to find a member of the hotel housekeeping staff knocking at the door. His fatigue was hitting him full-throttle and he didn’t have the energy to do much but fling the duvet over himself haphazardly. When she entered, she apologized but Bond waved her in and she smiled politely and went about her business. She cleaned up the bathroom, emptied all the bins, and as she was leaving, she remarked to him: “Sir, are you hurt? Do you want a doctor?”

He opened up one eye and looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”

She pointed to the duvet and the sheets. “Blood,” she said simply.

“Oh it’s nothing,” he replied, his eyes closing, head sunk deep into the pillow. “I’m just on my period.”

The woman said nothing for a long moment. “Sir?” she said. “Perhaps I’ll call for a doctor now?”

Bond opened both his eyes and pushed himself onto his elbows. “What did you call me?”

“S -sir?” The housekeeper was clearly terrified at this point.

He pushed the duvet off of himself and revealed the panties (pink with red hearts) made clearly as a feminine cut. The tip of his dick was sticking out of the waistband. “I’m a man again!” he exclaimed. They were probably the stupidest words he could have said at that moment, but he didn’t care. He was himself again. It was done and over. Bond beamed at the woman. She shook her head and excused herself as quickly as she could. She had clearly seen enough.

Bond neatly stripped off the panties noting that the pad was still attached at the crotch. As he raised his legs to get them off of his ankles, two things happened simultaneously: he wondered where the tampon had gotten to, and he got the answer. He felt along his arse for the string and cursed when he found it dangling out of his arsehole. The final humiliation. He could hear the distant cackle of an old woman as he made his way to the toilet to rid himself of the last vestiges the Curse.


End file.
